


Batter Up, Hear That Call

by Gang_Aft_Agley



Category: A League of Their Own (1992), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: A LOT of Jimmy swearing, AAGPBL, AU, AU After Age of Ultron, Abuse of folding chairs, Actually Just AU I'm picking and choosing, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crossdressing, Crossover, F/M, Gen, Happy Tower Time, I am fully aware that the time and place really do not work AT ALL, It's my fic so I DO WANT I WANT, Mae would eat Steve for breakfast, Mostly Darcy Swearing, Some Steve Swearing, Swearing, Virtually Crack, canon non-compliant, not civil war compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-07-10 23:37:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7013101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gang_Aft_Agley/pseuds/Gang_Aft_Agley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As it turns out, a lot of characters in the MCU have a history with the All-American Girls Professional Baseball League.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Time Has Come, For One and All...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [silentawe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentawe/gifts).



> This is completely, totally and utterly silentawe's fault. Completely. 
> 
> This will likely be a series of connected ficlets, updated as inspiration strikes. Also, I am 100% aware that the timing of this does not work at all, and that there would never have been a point that the Howling Commandos would have been stateside to become Rockford Peach fans. Artistic license! Furthermore, I know very little about the AAGPBL beyond many obsessive rewatches of "A League of Their Own" and some hasty googling.
> 
> Un-beta'd, all errors mine.

Darcy was acting weird. And not just weird by normal standards, that was only to be expected out of SHIELD’s newest PA and baby agent. No, her behavior was weird _for Darcy_ , which meant all kinds of extra-super-special _weird_.

First of all, she and Clint were spending a lot of time together: time that _wasn’t_ spent watching excessing amounts of trashy reality TV, oh no. Darcy, the queen of “I don’t believe I should run unless I’m being chased” was spending time in the gym. With Clint. And playing catch. And going to batting cages. And playing Wii baseball.

She was also spending a ridiculously large amount of time on her phone – large even by Darcy measurements, when you considered that she practically had the damn thing surgically implanted. Time _not_ spent talking to anyone at SHIELD, or on the Avengers, or anyone from Culver, or anyone Steve had ever heard her mention before now. (Trust him, he’d been listening, although his thorough attention was not nearly as creepy as Sam and Bucky insisted it was).

Finally, she keeps humming this _song._ It is achingly familiar, Steve knows it, he should be able to identify it, and yet he can’t quite put his finger on why he knows this catchy little tune, but can’t remember the lyrics.

It’s driving him absolutely _nuts_.

Bucky thinks the song was familiar, too, but his memories of the time before the Winter Soldier, before Hydra, were still patchy at best, and so he doesn’t ( _can’t_ ) let any one memory in particular (even one that keeps dancing just out of his reach) worry him too much, not when so many others are flooding back every day. It will either come to him, or it won’t, and either way, he’s not going to send his blood pressure through the roof over it.

At long last, after quite literal _weeks_ of frustration, Darcy happens to be passing through the kitchen off the common area where Steve and Bucky are watching a Mets game (because the Dodgers are now filthy West Coast traitors and the Yankees are … well, the _Yankees_ ), and while she hunts around for a snack, the humming turns to singing.

 

> “… _our chaperones are not too soft,_
> 
> _they’re not too tough._
> 
> _Our managers are on the ball._
> 
> _We’ve got a president who really knows his stuff._
> 
> _We’re one for all, we’re all for one,_
> 
> _We’re All-American!”_

“SON OF A BITCH!”

Darcy rears back out of the fridge in shock, nearly nailing her head on the freezer; there’s a horrifying _thump_ from the hallway as Clint walks into a wall instead of the open doorway; and even Bucky startles at Steve’s sudden outburst. (Steve’s actually pretty lucky that he didn’t get the remote control hurled at him, considering a) Bucky’s reflexes, and b) how well he reacts to surprises these days).

“Jesus _Christ_ , Steve, what the actual _fuck_?” Darcy snaps, slamming the fridge shut and spinning around to plant her hands on her hips. “Are you actively _trying_ to scare me out of ten years of my life? Because if so, YAY, mission accomplished, asshole!”

“Awww, wall, _no_ , and now I have to tell Phil that Captain America was swearing again. Probably gonna have to console him in his bitter disillusionment with pancakes and blowjobs,” Clint whines, coming into the room and clutching his forehead in genuine pain; Darcy wrinkles her nose at him in mock-disgust as she tosses him an icepack.

“Okay, _eewwwww_ , TMI about my boss, dude. We’ve talked about avoiding the over-share. But seriously, Steve, that was totally uncalled for.”

Steve drops his eyes, unable to meet any of their (rightly so!) annoyed gazes, and rubs the back of his neck in chagrin.

“Sorry, it’s just … I finally recognized that song. You’ve been humming it for weeks now, and then today you sang the lyrics, so I figured it out.”

Darcy’s ferocious scowl softens slightly, and she pads across the floor to lean her folded arms on the back of the couch.

“Oh, _yeah_ , that’s _right_ , there was that Star-Spangled Exhibition Game to sell war bonds, and then you were in tight with the Peaches after that – damn, I should have remembered, but then again, Nana was always a little pissy-jealous of them because of that. She played for the Comets; professional rivalry and all that.”

While she speaks, Bucky’s eyes do that weird back-and-forth, _processing-processing-click-click-click_ thing that they do whenever old memories slot back into place. When his expression clears, he blinks slowly, and then he just … _lights up_ , like the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Plaza.

“Peaches? As in … the _Rockford_ Peaches? Are they still around? Is girls’ baseball still a thing?”

Darcy smiles, and pats him on the head; he arches into her touch, practically purring, the way he does any kind of positive physical contact.

“Sadly, no and no. The league disbanded after 1954, for a lot of reasons, but mostly because TV and suddenly everyone could watch Major League BaseballTM at home instead of going out to the local ballpark. It was hell on men’s minor league teams, too.” Bucky’s face falls slightly, and she pets him again, this time running her fingers through his hair. “Awww, cheer up, Grumpy Cat – a surprisingly large number of the girls are still around, and the league even has an annual reunion; it’s coming up in the fall. But now the original players are all mostly in their nineties, so these days the daughters and granddaughters have to fill in for the actual _game_.”

And now it all makes sense … Steve could kick himself, because _of course_ she’s been practicing for the reunion. Bucky’s reaction is a little … _different._

“So, uh, we gonna see you running around in one of those flippy little dresses and knee socks?” he asks with a playful leer, and Darcy tugs his head back by his hair, none too gently, so she can look down at him with her best _are-you-crazy??_ glare (usually directed at Tony).

“Unh-unh, that would be a big fat _no_ , because sliding into home practically bare-legged hurts like a bitch, buster.” She yanks his hair again for good measure, but he just grins up at her until she lets him go with an irritated huff. Then Bucky turns to Steve with a pout, batting his lashes and making his best irresistible pleading puppy-dog eyes. Steve groans.

“You wanna go, don’t you, Buck?” Bucky nods, still looking pathetic. Steves sighs, and gives up, the way he always does, throwing his hands up in resignation. “When and where is this thing, Darcy?”

She rolls her eyes upwards, thinking for a moment before replying.

“Uhhh, October 20-23, in Sarasota, Florida; I’m pretty sure the hotel still has rooms available…” Her voice trails off as she realized just how … _enthusiastic_ Bucky was at the prospect of seeing the girls again, even seventy years later. “Why do I suddenly think this is a terrible idea?”

“Because your grandmother probably never told you _all_ of the stories about the Howling Commandos and the Rockford Peaches. Particularly about Bucky and Mae. 

Darcy gulps.

“Mae? As in … Mae Mordabito? _All the Way Mae_?”

Bucky just smiles, somehow managing to look sweet and wistful and predatory all at the same time; Steve’s head falls back onto the couch with a squishy _whumph_.

“That would be the one. Oh, the things I could tell you about the two a’them, all the trouble they caused me. I’m still surprised Mrs. Cuthbert didn’t skin us all alive, and I’m pretty sure the parish priest never recovered from their confessions.” Darcy’s jaw drops, half-traumatized, half-aroused as she sinks into a nearby armchair, knees gone all wobbly. Clint pats her on the shoulder with his free hand; the other is still holding the ice pack to his head.

“Son of a _bitch_.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just how _did_ Steve Rogers and the Howling Commandos make friends with the Rockford Peaches?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still unbeta'd, all mistakes mine.

**Rockford, IL – Beyer Stadium - Tuesday, August 3, 1943**

As far as the Peaches were concerned, everything started with Jimmy yelling at Mr. Lowenstein.  The whole dog-and-pony show had probably been in the works for some time before that, but the higher-ups didn’t see fit to inform the team until a few days beforehand.

Probably because Mr. Lowenstein knew _exactly_ how their manager would react; he still hadn't recovered from Jimmy’s behavior before, during, _and_ after their season opener ... and had also sent him the shoe cleaning bill.

Jimmy had come a long way in a fairly short period of time, from “girls are what you sleep with after the game” to seeing the Peaches as real ball players, and by God, they were _his_ ball players.  He now had little patience for anyone screwing up their schedule, whether that meant throwing in extra games, or just forcing the team to participate in “bullshit exhibition crap”.  Bets had been placed over what this change in attitude actually _meant_ (had he actually started to _care_ about the girls he coached, or did he just want his World Series bonus?), but the end result was the same: explosions, profanity, and the occasional folding chair being thrown against a wall ... or at someone’s head.

 _“We already had to do that All-Star Game with South Bend on the Fourth, for Chrissake_ , _and then that Red Cross fundraiser last week, and NOW you want them to spend their off-day playing against goddamn CHORUS GIRLS?”  
_

Mr. Lowenstein’s response was muffled and indistinct, but his tone was firm, causing their manager to go into another tirade, this one completely unprintable.

“Two bits says he goes for the chair.”

“No bet, Doris.”  _Clang – SMASH – slam - rattle._ “See?”

And then Jimmy was banging on the locker room door – not his usual shave-and-a-haircut rat-tat-tat, but a furious pounding.  He didn’t even holler out a warning to make sure that all the girls were decent, entering with his hands over his eyes.  Nope, this time he stormed in snarling, even angrier at than he had been when Evelyn missed the cut-off man throw and then cried about it.  For once, Stillwell Angel didn’t make a peep, shrinking back into a corner, eyes wide and mouth open.

“Well, the good news first: league attendance is up, so well done, everyone.  The bad news is that apparently it isn’t up _enough_ , and so instead of getting a rest day on Friday before our Saturday doubleheader against Kenosha, we’ll be playing an exhibition match at Harvey Field to drum up publicity and sell war bonds.”  He paused, shaking his head, unable to believe the words that were about to out of his mouth.  “An exhibition game  … against the dancers from the Captain America tour, coached by Captain America.”

Sixteen women stared at him in disbelief.

“Is this a joke?” Doris asked. 

“You know, Doris, that’s what I said at first, but apparently not.  Supposedly, since they’ve been planning this nonsense, the chorus girls have squeezed _some_ baseball practice in between rehearsals, kick lines, and being lifted up on a goddamn motorcycle.  We’re not supposed to actually _play_ , not really – they want it to be _flashy_ , dammit all to hell.  Henson, might wanna practice your splits.”

Mae raised her hand.

“This might be the perfect time to revisit …”

“Mae, your uniform will stay fully closed _at all times_ , do you understand me?”

 

**Chicago, IL - Harvey Field - Friday, August 6, 1943 – Star Spangled Exhibition Game  
**

“Jimmy, I’d like you to meet Captain Steve Rogers; Captain, this is Jimmy Dugan, manager of the Peaches.”

“Pleasure,” Jimmy managed between clenched teeth that bore only a superficial resemblance to a smile.  This wasn’t the place to make a scene, not with Senator Brandt himself making the introductions.  Rogers, however, was genuinely pleased, a giant puppy of a man, who didn’t flinch at all when Jimmy applied considerably more pressure than necessary to their handshake - look, how else was he supposed to get his frustration out?  And judging from the newsreels, he'd expected Captain America to be a skinny kid in a padded costume, but nope, there was real muscle under those tights.

“It’s an honor, Mr. Dugan.  Heard you play on the radio all the time growing up; just wish I could have had the chance to see you live.”  Jimmy relaxed his grip by sheer force of will; Rogers wasn’t to blame for this bullcrap anymore than Jimmy was, unfortunately, and trying to crush _his_ hand wasn’t fair.  Trying to crush the hands of Mr. Harvey or the Senator _would_ be both fair and just, but would also be suicidal, so Jimmy contented himself with another “smile”, and let his shoulders soften a bit in submission to the inevitable.

Mr. Lowenstein, eyes narrowed in suspicion but reassured that Jimmy wouldn’t throw furniture or try to throttle anyone ( _yet_ ), led the Senator, his entourage, and Mr. Harvey off … somewhere, probably to their assigned seats.  The girls on both “teams” were trickling out of the locker rooms in twos and threes, the chorus girls dressed in slightly modified versions of their costumes to match the Peaches’ uniforms.

“Not exactly what I had in mind when I signed up to serve my country, but that's the Army for you, I guess,” Rogers said with a grimace, already dripping with sweat beneath that ridiculous hood.  Jimmy grunted noncommittally, but felt a twinge of sympathy for the kid in spite of himself.  Baseball woolens were no joke to wear, especially in the muggy late summer heat, but at least they were looser and lighter than the Captain America get-up.

“We don’t have a show again until Monday afternoon, and, well, the girls and I feel bad about taking up your rest day today, so we’d like to take you all out tomorrow night, after you beat Kenosha.” Rogers continued, smiling again, a blinding matinee idol’s grin crossed with that of a pleading little boy, and Jimmy didn’t have the heart to refuse.

“Sounds good; the chaperones’ll want my players home by ten, but I think we can work something out.”  Jimmy caught a glimpse of Mae over the kid’s shoulder, licking her lips.  “Just, uh, watch out for #5 when we do; she’ll eat you for breakfast.”

Rogers turned slightly, saw where Jimmy was indicating with his chin, and swallowed hard before visibly drawing to attention.

“Well, she won’t be the first to try, probably won’t be the last either.  I’ll just … just let Mary Beth and Julia have a word with her between now and then.  They’re good at keeping me out of trouble.”

 

**USO Dance at Memorial Hall - Rockford, IL - Saturday, August 7, 1943**

“You’re gonna put ice on that later, right?  Maybe dab some witch hazel or arnica on it before bedtime,” Steve nodded at the puffy purple lump on Kit Keller’s cheekbone.  Kit rolled her eyes.

“Of course, I’m not an idiot.”  Steve grinned.

“Speaking from experience, it’d be a good idea to sleep propped up tonight, too; don’t wanna let all the fluids pool in your head with a shiner like that, or you’ll hate yourself in the morning.”

“Experience, huh?  You have a lot of experience catching baseballs with your face?”

“Baseballs?  No.  _Fists_ , on the other hand….”

“Huh, she snorted in derision. “Like you’ve ever lost a fight in your life.”

“On the contrary, Miss Keller, I lost every single one, and probably would not be standing here today if my friend Bucky hadn’t charged in like the cavalry whenever I picked a fight with someone twice my size.  Which was frequently.  Almost daily, in fact.”

Her eyebrows shot up, and she lifted a hand off his shoulder to poke at his bicep experimentally.

“Riiiiiggghhhht,” she drawled skeptically.  “If the guys you were picking fights with were twice _this_ size … what do they _feed_ you boys in Brooklyn?”

“ _This_ size?  All of _this_ ,” he gestured expansively to, well, all of him, “is brand new.  Up until about a month ago, I was _tiny_.  Smaller even than you, in fact.” 

“No!  I don’t believe that,” she said, scrunching up her nose, eyes wide.  “I absolutely refuse to believe it.” 

“Really, it’s true,” Steve grinned down at her, dropping her hand momentarily to hold up his own, palm flat, just below her eyes; she giggled and batted his hand away.  “Spent my whole life as a little guy, even though I sure didn’t act like it.  Tiny little terrier, trying to be a mastiff.”

“So … what happened?”

“Well, I joined the Army.”  Laughing, he spun her away and back again as the band segued into something a little more up-tempo.  He glanced around furtively, making sure the coast was clear; luckily, Fred (who played Hitler) was partnering Miss Mordabito for a fast jitterbug, so he felt safe enough leaving the dance floor.  “Here, I’m useless at anything faster than a slow shuffle, let me get you a drink and take you back to your sister before I step all over your toes.” 

She’d taken his arm and allowed him to lead her off the dance floor eagerly enough at first, but as soon as he mentioned Mrs. Henson (sitting off to the sides with Mr, Dugan, Mrs. Horn and Mrs. Cuthbert, the chaperone), she stiffened and stumbled a bit.  Steve bit back a sympathetic grin, because he knew she’d see only the grin and not the sympathy.

“Oho, I know _that_ look.” 

“What look?” she asked with a brittle smile that was more like a grimace.  He smiled softly, and patted the hand that was tucked into the crook of his elbow.

“Why don’t we stroll about for a bit instead?  Bucky may have been my best friend, not my big brother … but I _do_ know a thing or two about living in someone else’s shadow.”

 

**Thursday, October 7, 1943 – England, en route to Italy**

Most of Steve’s fan mail was really sent to “Captain America”, and as such, was mostly handled by the War Department.  _This_ envelope, a nice fat crinkly one, was instead addressed to Captain Rogers, postmarked Oregon, and had been sent to him from someone at the Lukash Dairy.

There was no letter inside, just a copy of the _Chicago Tribune_ from September, folded open to the sports page.  The headline screamed **_RACINE WINS 4-3_ , **and Steve winced at the photo underneath it; that was a brutal hit, and even in blurry newsprint, it wasn’t hard to recognize the subjects.  Just in case, though, someone had helpfully circled one of the two names in the caption with red pencil, and scribbled in the margin, _Little sister comes into her own!_

Steve smiled, and carefully cut the article out, already mentally composing his reply to Dottie Henson, and a note of congratulations to Kit Keller.

 

**New York City Docks – Saturday, July 8, 1944**

As expected, Howard met them at the bottom of the gangway, practically vibrating with glee at the thought of getting to play with and take apart the latest bits and pieces of liberated Hydra hardware.  Instead of immediately attacking the nearest crate with a crowbar and diving in headfirst, however, he gave Peggy a brusque kiss on the cheek, nodded at the rest of the Commandos, and whistled for a veritable army of burly stevedores to load the packing crates onto a waiting truck.

Fair enough; Howard was, if nothing else, something of a stickler for lab safety where other people were concerned (if not himself).  Colonel Phillips’ couldn’t be _too_ explicit in his cables, but he’d made it very clear to Stark how volatile this stuff was; one poor bastard from the SAS had nearly blown a hole clear through his midsection while boxing some of the more unstable items up and layering them with straw.  A nearby Jeep hadn’t been so lucky.

“Thought you couldn’t wait to get your hands on some of Zola’s toys,” Steve said teasingly, unable to resist.

“Yeah, I was all ready to haul you out of a crate by your ankles,” Dum-Dum added.  Dernier said something derisive in French, too rapidly for Steve to follow, but it made Gabe choke with laughter until Morita slapped him on the back.  Peggy hid her smile behind her hand; Howard just scowled.

“If we didn’t have a train to catch, you _would,”_ he groused, chivvying them towards a pair of Jeeps waiting behind the truck.   Bucky stopped dead, frowning, and Steve almost walked into him.

“ _Train_?  Steve said the SSR was based outta Brooklyn!”

“Nah, it _was_ , but we had to move HQ: Brooklyn’s too full of Nazi spies now.”  Steve swallowed hard, remembering Dr. Erskine … and Franz Kruger.  “Nope, we’re headed to Chicago for a couple of months.  Didn’t tell you before ‘cause we didn’t want the telegram to be intercepted.”

Steve smiled slightly, considering.  It’d been a rough several months, with hardly any leave time since D-Day.  They could all use a break, a little relaxation.

“Chicago, huh?  Fellas, while we’re there, I think we oughta make time to catch a baseball game or two … “


	3. We Come From Cities, Near and Far

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darcy goes to the AAGPBL reunion and a few friends tag along. Bucky reunites with an old friend, who has some ... interesting stories to tell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There really WAS an AAGPBL reunion in Sarasota, Florida in October 2016 ... and that's as far as I'm sticking to historical accuracy.

"Hi, Nana," Darcy said, bending down to kiss her grandmother; you neglected to give Lillian Esther Shapiro (n **é** e Gabler) some sugar at your peril. 

"Ready to defend the honor of Kenosha tomorrow?"  Nana grinned up at her, grabbed one of her hands in both of hers, and squeezed tightly.  She might be 96 years old and mostly confined to a wheelchair these days, but the sheer _volume_ of her personality more than made up for it.  "Been practicing your dirt in the skirt?"

"I've been practicing _sliding_ , there will be absolutely no skirt involved, you've told me the horror stories too many times over the years."  Nana smirked and patted Darcy's cheek, knocking her glasses slightly askew.

"Fair enough, kiddo.  Now, sit down and tell me what's new with you; your mother has been distressingly tight-lipped about this new job of yours."  Darcy sat, inhaling deeply.  Here went nothing.

"It's not her fault, I haven't told her much, either; I'm not really supposed to talk about work very much." 

“We were a bit worried when you said you didn’t need a ride from the airport,” Darcy’s dad added. “But I see you got here all right.”

Darcy bit her lip and took a deep breath. _Confession time._

"Yeah, um, about that ... I may or may not have brought a cheering section along, and some of them are die-hard Peaches fans?  Just a couple!" she added quickly, because Nana's eyes had narrowed in a way that had never boded any good for anyone ever.  "I, um, happened to mention this whole shindig to my co-workers, and they decided to tag along."

"Your co-workers ..." On Nana’s other side, Rebecca Lewis scrunched up her nose in confusion for a moment, and then her jaw dropped as realization dawned.  "Darcy. Anne. Lewis.  Did you bring _The Avengers_ with you?" 

Darcy winced.

"Not ... _all_ of them?"’

*  *  *

The first sign that her nice, peaceful, quiet family vacation to Florida (well, as peaceful and quiet as anything in the Lewis-Shapiro clan ever got) was turning into a superhero circus was the email she received from Delta, cc'ed to Coulson and Jarvis, cancelling her tickets to and from Sarasota, with a full refund.

The _fuck?_

"Rogers and Barnes can't fly commercial," her boss informed her when she waved the printout in his face ... or tried to, since he kept his attention focused on his computer.  "Or rather, they _can_ ," he continued, still typing placidly away, "but it's far more trouble than it's worth.  Rogers simply won't check the shield with the rest of his luggage, and while it isn't technically a _weapon_ , per se, TSA still doesn't want it as a carry-on.  Then, of course, there's the impossibility of getting Barnes _and_ his arm through a metal detector without a major incident and several hours of additional screenings."

"And that prevents _me_ from flying commercial, how ...?" Darcy flapped the paper at him a few more times until Coulson finally looked up.

"The team will be taking either a Quinjet or one of Stark's planes, depending on the final headcount - I just assumed you'd prefer to save the airfare and ride with us."

Darcy gaped at him for a few harrowing seconds, nodded silently, and went back to her desk in a state of disbelief.

The literal, actual-facts _Avengers_ were coming to her Nana's AAGPBL reunion.  And she got to hitch a ride down there on a Quinjet.  _What even is her life anymore?_

*  *  *

The elevator went _ding_ ; Darcy groaned in exasperation when she turned around and saw the last members of their little group step out into the lobby. 

“Oh my god, was there a three-for-one special at Bad Disguises ‘R Us? Even Clint’s blending in better than you guys.”

“Only because Phil ensured that I was … sufficiently motivated,” Clint muttered, and then grunted as Coulson’s elbow made contact with his ribs. Natasha started singing _Don’t Be Suspicious_ under her breath with a modified version of the dance, but then again, she was an actual _spy_ , not a soldier, and could always be counted on to dress for the occasion.

Steve, Bucky and Sam all evidently subscribed to the "sunglasses + hoodie + ballcap = INVISIBILITY!" school of disguise.  (Hint: it does not). Granted, _nothing_ was going to keep Steve from standing out in a crowd, not with his glorious shoulder-to-waist ratio. Trying to cover his face with a hat and fake glasses, though, just screamed _I am totally incognito_ , which only drew attention rather than deflecting it.

Bucky wasn’t dressed for Florida weather, even _October_ Florida weather, although that was hardly his fault: long sleeves and gloves were needed to hide the arm, which would have been even more eye-catching than his outfit. The thousand-yard-stare peering out from under the brim of his cap didn’t help either; crowds made still him nervous, and the prospect of seeing All-the-Way Mae for the first time in seventy-plus years was probably pretty stomach-churning, too.

Sam was the best of the bunch (no surprise there), but he was still an Avenger and therefore fairly recognizable as That Flying Dude Always Saving Captain America’s Bacon. So he was wearing aviators, as per usual.

Indoors.

At _night_.

“At least take your hats off before Nana sees you and skins you alive,” Darcy sighed in resignation. “We’re _inside_ , and she _knows_ that neither of you were brought up in a barn.”

“It could be worse,” Coulson added with patently false solicitude. “Stark could have decided to come.”

*  *  *

The pre-dinner cocktail hour was … chaos, no other way to describe it. Most of the people here knew each other fairly well, swapping greetings and hugs at high volume, while staking out choice seats at the big round tables. Darcy’d wandered off almost immediately, once she spotted her mother waving at her at the other end of the room. There was an open bar, and waiters circulating with trays of nibblies. A slideshow was playing on a big screen, pictures from the League’s heyday interspersed with images of past reunions … there was even one shot of a much younger Darcy in a mini Kenosha uniform, missing two front teeth and sitting on her dad’s shoulders.

Steve exhaled deeply, and snuck a glimpse at Bucky out of the corner of his eye, who had leaned against the wall right by the door, hands stuffed in his pocket.

“Not too late to go back upstairs and order room service, Buck,” he murmured in his best friend’s ear. Bucky smiled weakly.

“No, I _want_ to be here, it’s just … you know. A bit much.”

Sam propped himself on Steve’s other side, waiting, while Coulson got everyone registered and checked in. Natasha had procured a drink almost immediately (Steve wasn’t sure exactly how, the crowd around the bar was pretty think, but she had her ways) and was casually defending it from Clint’s grabby hands, completely immune to his puppy eyes. Coulson gave him another elbow jab in the ribs as he rejoined the group (“Clint, I’m rather fond of your fingers, and would like them to remain attached to your body”). Chivvying their awkward little cluster further into the room, he handed out nametags, mother hen impression spot-on.

“So, what first? Drink, snacks, staking out a table? Do you want to go meet Darcy’s folks, or hunt down some old friends?”

Steve grimaced.

“I don’t know …” He’d seen the attendee list when they’d registered, and it’d been disheartening to see how _few_ of the original players were still around.

Bucky snorted.

“We’re probably not going to have to _hunt_ for the person I most want to…” and then he was cut off by an all too familiar bellow.

“BARNES!”

Steve and Bucky both looked up as a baseball came hurtling towards them. Steve ducked, while Bucky quickly raised his left arm and deflected the ball before it smashed into his nose. (It bounced and rolled a bit before Natasha used her foot to stop it and scooped it up).

“Well, some things never change,” Steve murmured as the owner of both ball and voice stomped her way across the hotel ballroom. Mae Mordabito certainly hadn’t; her hair was pure silver now, her figure slightly less trim, and she was dragging a portable oxygen tank with her (“Damn cigarettes,” as she later told them), but otherwise? Exactly the same.

Bucky perked up _immediately_ , grinning from ear-to-ear, and looking disconcertingly like his old self. Removing his ballcap, he folded her into a bonecrushing bearhug, which she returned with equal enthusiasm.

“Hiya, beautiful.”

“Let go of me, trouble, and let me get a good look at you. What the _hell_ have you done to your hair?” With a final squeeze, he released her and held out his arms for inspection.

Stepping back, Mae crossed her arms, and eyed Bucky up-and-down, head-to-toe, for several long, agonizing seconds. (She wasn’t the only one; they’d drawn quite a crowd by this point).

“Lord help me, I think you’d do more than pop a seam or two this time, Barnes. You’ve thickened up some in seventy-odd years.” Bucky just smirked.

“Bet you’d still look dynamite in my jacket, though.” She punched him in the shoulder for that. _Hard_.

“Pop the seams on _what_ , exactly, Bucky? Anything you wanna share with the class?” Darcy asked, having heard the commotion and wandered over, pushing her grandmother’s wheelchair. Mae grinned, and tossed her head in an all too familiar way (not dislodging the tubing in her nose through long practice).

"Run get Gan-gan's StarkPad, honey."  The wee five-year-old now clinging to Mae’s leg toddled off eagerly, returning a moment later with the requested object to receive a smacking kiss on wispy baby curls.

"Kit's youngest grandbaby digitized all her photos from the old days a few years back, sent them around to everyone on the Peaches mailing list.  He also sent _most_ of them to the Hall of Fame exhibit, but a few ... _well_.  Didn't want to tarnish the sterling reputation of Captain America's best friend, so she held onto _them_."

Bucky blanched, and Steve doubled over with laughter.

"Oh sweet Jesus, no.  She _kept_ those?" Mae’s smile turned positively _evil_.

"Kept 'em, preserved 'em, passed 'em around.  Just be grateful we kept 'em offa Facebook.  It's become almost a rite of passage to show the infamous Bucky Barnes shots to daughters and grand-daughters when they get old enough,"

"How come you never showed 'em to _me_ , Nana?" Darcy cut in, a trifle mutinously.  Mae patted her arm consolingly.

"It was really just a Peaches thing, hon. Lil, think she's ready for it?"

Darcy’s Nana pondered for a moment.

"Considering everything she got up to in college, and now hanging out in the superhero frat house, yeah I think she’s old enough.”

“Lillipoodle, _no,”_ Bucky begged. Lillian snorted, and Steve covered his mouth to hide a grin.

“Since when are you the voice of reason? Go ahead, Mae.”

With admirable showmanship, Mae swiped across the screen and brought up a photo album, presenting her StarkPad to Darcy, Coulson and Sam peering over her shoulder.  Bucky buried his face in his hands, and Steve bit his lip, trying to control his amusement.

Coulson didn't exactly _faint_ , per se, but his knees definitely wobbled once he got a good look at the black-and-white images. Darcy stopped breathing for a couple of heartbeats, and Sam tried (unsuccessfully) to turn his laughter into a cough.

“Okay, now I want _details_ ,” Darcy demanded, passing the StarkPad over with one imperious _snap_ of Natasha’s fingers.

Mae’s only response was a smug wink, and Bucky moaned.

“Get me a dirty martini, kid, and I’ll tell you _everything_.” 


	4. Our Chaperones Are Not Too Soft, They're Not Too Tough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What, _exactly_ , was in those pictures that made Coulson go all wobbly?

The first time was an accident.  Mrs. Cuthbert had spent the evening visiting her sister across town, and planned to be home by nine.  Which was fine by the league, since the girls had a curfew of 10 pm _sharp_.  Bucky would sneak down the back stairs and out the kitchen door at about 8:40, Steve was supposed to pick him up around the block a few minutes later, and they'd be well on their way back to HQ long before the chaperone had any reason to be suspicious.  That was _THE PLAN_.  Steve's strategic talents would be good for something other than blowing up Nazis, and everyone would get out of this with a good time and all reputations intact.

Unfortunately for _THE PLAN_ , Mrs. Cuthbert came up the front walk at 8:34.  At that point, Bucky and Mae were still curled up together in her bed, only half-dressed (if we're being generous in our description) and putting off his imminent departure in favor of exchanging a few last slow, sweet, lazy kisses. 

The only reason they didn't get caught _completely_ unawares was because of Doris.  She just happened to look out the parlor window at the right moment, and got Shirley and Evelyn to stall Mrs. Cuthbert out on the porch for a few crucial minutes while she hauled buns up the stairs to bang out a warning on Mae's door.  Bucky decided later that he owed all three of them a lot of black market chocolate and nylons for pulling his bacon out of the fire, and maybe that can of pineapple Steve was saving for Carter.    
  
"The Wicked Witch of the West has landed, and the house is about to drop on your heads!"  
  
" _Shit!"_   Mae gave Bucky a mighty shove and kicked him out of bed … literally.  Catching himself with catlike grace (okay, he actually flailed about madly, with no grace whatsoever), Bucky scrabbled around on the floor for his discarded clothes, while she swirled a kimono around her shoulders and ran her fingers madly through her hair to pat it into some sort of presentable shape.    
  
So at least Mrs. Cuthbert wasn't going to walk in on them _in flagrante delicto_ , or close enough for government work, while doing her nightly bed checks, but that still didn't solve the problem of getting Bucky _out of the house_ , since she was now between him and both the front _and_ back doors. 

Luckily, Bucky was no stranger to this situation, and although his preferred method of egress was a handy fire escape (common in Brooklyn, not so much in Rockford), the tree outside of Mae's window would do just as well.  Mae threw up the sash and pushed him out over the sill with a pat on the rear (pat, grope, is all the same thing, no?), and began throwing the rest of his clothing out behind him as he climbed down.

That was the scene caught on Kit's little Box Brownie out of her own window, because she heard the frantic scramble from next door and couldn't resist: Bucky up a tree, barefoot, wearing only his dogtags, undershirt and trousers, with the latter hanging low on his hips because his belt was still undone.  In the best shot, he's dangling from a branch a few feet off the ground, about to drop the rest of the way down, with the muscles in his back, arms and shoulders beautifully highlighted.  A few lovebites stand out vividly on his throat and chest, and his normally perfect hair is sticking up in all directions like a deranged hedgehog.  (He still looks unfairly handsome).  Even in black-and-white, he's practically glowing, all sweaty and glistening.  The rest of his clothes are scattered on the grass below his feet; he's grinning like a cat caught in (and then chased away from) the cream.  A cat with absolutely no regrets whatsoever, and will try again the very moment your back is turned.

There's a slight blur on the very edge of the frame: one of Bucky's shoes (hurled by Mae with incredible accuracy), which is about to clonk him in the head.  This explains why instead of a neatly executed tuck-and-roll as he hits the ground (show-off), Kit's next shot will show him sprawled inelegantly, facedown on the grass.  It's still not a bad photo, though, because his pose certainly emphasizes certain, ah ... _rear assets._

" _Mae!"_ he hissed as he got to his feet, as loudly as he dared, rubbing his forehead where he will almost certainly have a lump.  She smirked, blew him a kiss, and slammed the window shut.  Kit was giggling, and waved goodbye at him as she likewise disappeared back inside with her camera.

Grumbling, he gathered up the his clothes and shoved his bare feet into his shoes without socks, before hightailing it down the alley and along the side street to where Steve was waiting with the car. 

Steve remained very pointedly silent as Bucky slid into the passenger seat: just raised an eyebrow the same way he had when Annie McTavish's father had threatened to turn his best friend into mincemeat (not an idle threat - Mr. McTavish came from a long and distinguished line of butchers).

"Shaddup and drive, Stevie, before the old bat looks out the window and catches us."

"I didn't say nothing!"

"Look, pal, Carter literally tried to shoot your punk ass, you got no room to comment."

Steve just smiled serenely and cranked the ignition.

* * *

The second time began as a joke.  On _this_ occasion, they had arranged for a more sophisticated alarm system: Stillwell Angel could be heard all over the house, not to mention being pathetically easy to bribe with a handful of Harvey Bars ("Two now, two more upon services successfully rendered") and a signed Captain America card.  Plus, Falsworth was calling _properly_ down in the parlor, sipping tea and keeping Mrs. Cuthbert occupied; he was the only one of the Commandos of whom she thoroughly approved.  The rest were all questionable at best, although Steve was really only guilty through his close association with Bucky.

Mae was being playful: wearing only Bucky's uniform jacket over her drawers and striking ridiculous cheesecake-y pinup poses.  He was threatening to either a) go borrow a camera from one of the other girls, or b) have her pose just like that some other time, and let Steve draw her.  (He was only half-kidding about doing either, or both; they'd be heading back overseas at some point, and while Stevie might be content with a tiny above-the-shoulders snap in a compass, he'd prefer something a little more ... entertaining to keep _him_ warm at night).

Nevertheless, he really _did_ need his jacket back, even if they probably did have a few minutes to spare.  Mae, in contrast, did not seem to be in any hurry to surrender it, and he couldn't exactly tackle her, hold her down, and wrestle it off of her, that would not help the situation _at all_.

Turnabout was fair play, though, and by chance, one of _her_ uniforms was draped over the vanity stool. 

It fit ... barely; he had to leave off the belt, and none of the buttons would fasten across his chest, but he could, in fact, get into it.

Mae was doubled over with laughter as Bucky preened and strutted around the room.  Truth be told, he looked quite fetching, and his legs were certainly nothing to sneeze at.

That, of course, was Stillwell's cue to scream.

"Mae, quick, my clothes!"

"No time - out the window!"    
  
Bucky disagreed vehemently (there is _always_ time for pants, even if there isn't time for anything else), but she preempted him by suiting to the action to the words, and tossing his trousers (along with the rest of his clothing) out the window.

He was not particularly inclined to shimmy down the tree in _just_ his drawers, and anyway, Stillwell's shrieking had taken on a particular urgency, punctuated by frantic NOs, indicating that discovery was imminent.  So he did the only thing he could do: make his escape in a dress.

Not _every_ resident in the house was privy to "The Plan", but several were.  Including Kit, who had her camera ready and waiting on her window sill.

Just in case.

For posterity.

The imitation of a Peach wasn’t entirely perfect: he was still wearing his own drawers underneath, but Bucky still looked … well, he looked just fine in a different uniform. 

(There was at least one shot of him with the skirt up over his head and ass in the air, after he lost his grip on a branch and landed on his face).

Mae’s uniform remained _mostly_ intact in the process, despite the strain on the seams during his defenestration and subsequent descent to the ground.  The few that did pop open were fairly easy to fix, especially considering Bucky’s Ma had started refusing to repair his clothes about the same time Steve started picking righteous but unwinnable fights.  He also had the uniform laundered and pressed before returning it to Mae.

Less easy was having to deliver said uniform to the locker room before the next game, and face Jimmy's hairy eyeball and the girls' knowing looks.  At least he'd wrapped it up in an innocuous-looking parcel, with brown paper and string?

(The love-bite on the back of his neck was a bit harder to hide).

* * *

The third time was ... different.  For starters, no warning was needed, and in fact, Mrs. Cuthbert had given tacit approval for Bucky's presence upstairs.  It happened after Mae had taken a hard hit sliding into home, and while her shoulder wasn't _technically_ dislocated, it was the next thing to it.

Bucky arrived at the Peaches’ house shortly after Miss Cuthbert and Jimmy had installed the patient in bed with a mound of pillows, armed with a bouquet of flowers and several boxes of candy (being friends with Captain America had _some_ perks aside from being a target for every Hydra goon in Western Europe).  A solemn oath to be on his best behavior (as well as the sincere distress radiating from every pore) got Bucky past the chaperone and up the stairs with an ice pack.

He rapped gently on Mae's door, and poked his head inside when told to enter.

Mae scowled from where she was twisting and turning, trying to get comfortable with her arm in a sling.  On top of that she also had bruised ribs and a strawberry mark the size of a frying pan on her thigh.  Needless to say, she was not in a particularly good mood.

“Barnes, I swear to god, if you think you're coming anywhere _near_ me tonight….” her voice trailed off threateningly.  Bucky just rolled his eyes, toeing off his shoes and took of his jacket, draping it over the chair.

"Shit, doll, _really_?  I have plenty of experience playing Florence Nightingale.  Do you KNOW how many times I had to patch Steve up when we were kids?  Here, sit up for a sec, you’ll never be able to sleep like that."

Slipping a practiced hand under her back, he eased her upright and helped her scoot forward just a bit, scattering most of the pillows to the ground in the process.  Keeping her propped up, Bucky quickly rearranged the few remaining pillows, and slid between her and the headboard, settling her between his legs.

With a sigh of relief, she leaned back against his chest, head resting on a pillow he’d wedged under his chin.  The new position also kept  weight _off_ her injured shoulder, and allowed him to hold an icepack there, too.  His free arm wrapped around her waist, and Mae wasted no time twining her fingers with his.

“So … you and Steve used to sleep like _this_ back when?”  Bucky chuckled, and Mae swatted him for jostling her and sending twinges up and down her arm.

“Back when he was a little guy, yeah, all the time.  Never met a fight he could walk away from, and never met one he could win, either, so he usually ended up black-and-blue almost from head-to-toe before I could step in.  And in winter, when he was sick and his ma couldn’t afford much in the way of heat, he needed me to share body warmth and keep him from drowning in his own phlegm.  At least you’re not coughing up a lung or two.”

Mae wrinkled her nose, and probably would have said something scathing in response, but Doris and Kit chose that moment to make an appearance: Doris with the flowers Bucky had brought, now arranged in a vase for Mae's dressing table, and Kit with (what else?) her camera.  

Neither Bucky nor Mae appreciated being the subject of Kit’s new-found interest in photography, but they never seemed to be in a position to put a stop to it.  On previous occasions, Bucky’d been more than a bit preoccupied with beating a hasty retreat, and Mae had been busy helping him.  This time, they were … well, _stuck_.

Which probably explains why several pictures from that evening showed Bucky scowling (and his dead-eyed sniper’s stare), Mae yelling (and throwing pillows), and one or both of them raising a middle finger to the camera, rendering the images unsuitable for public consumption (more so than they already were, anyway).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come tumble with me! ](https://oft-goes-awry.tumblr.com/)


	5. Dirt(y) in the Skirt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint sees Bucky's old photos and is inspired; Darcy is easily bribed.
> 
> Phil is in for an interesting evening.

"Please?"

"No."

" _Pretty_ please?"

"No."

"Pretty please with cherries and whipped cream on top?"  This was accompanied by Bambi eyes and fluttering eyelashes… and yet Darcy remained completely unmoved.

" _Still_ no!  No, no, no, no!  Stop asking, because you are never, _ever_ getting your hands on it!"

"But Daaaaaaaaarcy..."  And now Clint had progressed from begging to full-on _whining;_ the next step would no doubt involve splashing and possibly toppling her off of her pool raft.  To preserve both her tanning time and the sanctity of her paperback, she needed to nip this in the bud.

"Do you want a comprehensive list of all the reasons why I am never giving in on this?" Glaring at Clint over the top of her sunglasses, she began ticking her points off on her fingers.  "Numero uno, while my day-to-day job may involve being a glorified scientist-and-superhero gopher, I am currently on VA-CAY-TION.  Which means I have no obligation to do anything you tell me to do, Hawkass.  Number two, I know exactly _why_ you want to borrow it, and there is no way in hell I will allow a priceless piece of family history to be subjected to such indignities … and bodily fluids.  Ick.  And finally, number three, if you _were_ to show up for kinky sexy funtimes in my Nana's vintage, pristine, perfectly preserved Comets uniform, I can absolutely, 100% guarantee that you will not actually _get_ kinky sexy funtimes.  Either your man will go into paroxysms of SQUEE over awesome memorabilia, OR he will be utterly appalled at your desecration of said awesome memorabilia, and in neither case will you be getting laid."

Having said what she considered to be the final word on the subject, Darcy picked her book back up, resettled herself upon the float, and gave Clint no more of her attention.

For several minutes, silence reigned absolute ... except for the shriek of kids in the shallow end playing Marco Polo, and the nearer _shush-shush-shush_ of Clint treading water.  (Still quieter than any day spent in the vicinity of Tony Stark).

It was not destined to last because, well, ... _Clint_.

"OK, so the original is a no-go; can you help me throw together a replica instead?"  Darcy rolled her eyes.

"Dude, I'd tell you to go _buy_ one at the convention center and get out of my hair, except that I am 99.9% sure that even the XXXL will not accommodate dem guns.  Well, also your shoulders, to be perfectly honest, but mostly ... DEM GUNS."

"We could let the sleeves out ..." Clint said musingly.  Darcy scowled at him, and splashed him with her foot.

" _We?_ There is no 'we', kemosabe.  Do I _look_ like Phil's fancy-schmancy tailor?"

"No, but I'm pretty sure most of your thrift-store vintage acquisitions weren't originally made with your ... _tracts of land_ in mind."

Darcy blinked.

"... I will sneak up on you while you sleep and dig your eyeballs out with a rusty spork."

"I'll help," Natasha added cheerfully from her own float nearby.  Clint winced.

"Aw, words, no.  All I meant was that you know your way around a seam-ripper, okay?"  Darcy had to concede the point.

"My alteration game _is_ strong ..."  Clint's puppy-dog-pout intensified at this sign of weakness.

"I'll get you a new iPod." he wheedled.  One of Darcy's eyebrows shot up; Clint only resorted to bribery when he was truly desperate.  This could prove to be very profitable for her. 

"I'm listening..."  Mentally, she steepled her fingers _a la_ Mr. Burns. _Excellent._

"New iPod, uh, Starbucks for a week when we get back, um, I will cheerfully participate in any and all group costumes for Halloween without complaint ...  I will not leave an empty milk carton in the communal fridge for at least the next month ... um, I will not complain the next time you substitute grated cauliflower for actual food during team dinners..."  He threw his hands up in desperation, causing her to jerk violently away to protect her book from a stray splatter and nearly fall off her float in the process.  Time to end his misery before irreparable damage was done.

"Throw in a daily breakfast sandwich with the Starbucks and make it Venti-sized, and you have a deal, mister." She closed her book, marking her place with her finger.  "Here are my conditions: in two hours, you will come to my room with a uniform from the convention center, sized as close to you as Jarvis can assess.  If he thinks we'll need more extra fabric than I can steal by shortening the skirt, you will buy _two._ You will also have made a trip to the nearest Jo-Ann's or Hancock's; I will text you a shopping list.  I make no guarantees as the durability of the final product; my Singer is back at the Tower, so I'm probably gonna have to baste you into it and pray.  You are completely on your own as far as acquiring hat, knee socks and spandex; no way, no how am I touching that."

"That's a complete and total lie, you touch his ass every chance you get," Natasha chimed in again, somehow managing to make the act of turning a page look menacing.

"Fair point, but I refuse to be in charge of clothing it!"

Beaming from ear to ear, Clint lunged out of the water to plant a drippy-wet, chlorine-y kiss on her cheek (more accurately, her ear, but the intention was clear) before paddling away to dry off and carry out her bidding.  Sighing, Darcy fished her phone out of the Ziploc baggie at her side where she had stashed it for safe-keeping, and tapped out her orders to both Jarvis and Clint.

"Do you have any idea what you've just let yourself in for?" Natasha asked after a few minutes.

Darcy shrugged, and kept texting.

"Nope, but I just scored some sweet favors, a new iPod and two hours of Clint-free tanning time.  Toss me the sunscreen, please?"


End file.
